


Flight on Loose Wings

by primeling



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Reproduction, Established Relationship, M/M, past Optimus Prime/Ultra Magnus, past mechpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeling/pseuds/primeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Megatron is given an advantage few will ever have, and surveys his little domain. Within that domain is something small, innocent, born out of sorrow... and everything that welded together something so new that Megatron had to borrow a human word: family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rinpin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rinpin), [mooseling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooseling/gifts).



From the vantage point, seated within the Supreme’s captain chair, Megatron could track the pitter-tap of stomping little protoboots. It earned a growl from the massive warbuild, and a small chuckle out of the leviathan other. Neither one were void of fondness and patience, but Megatron’s agitation came purely out of the knowledge that the sound’s retreat went towards lesser parts of the ship.

So concentrated on the tracked pedesteps, Megatron only barely heard a partial fragment of Omega Supreme’s words. 

“— a great big spark for something so little,” and Megatron growled at what the Autobot weapon said. 

Part of him wanted to come to imaginary defense: that the little tyke was only so small because he had only just begun to expand his protoform and grow beyond the tiny sparkling that first crawled out of the pod. Instead, the tamed tyrant growled again, and earned no reply by Omega. 

Great force was wasted upon extricating himself from the chair, which was no suitable throne for a mech such as he. Instead, Megatron began to wield his heavy frame down the hallways and through the by-ways, until he came just outside of the medbay. 

To listen, to watch, and all other instinctual drives were to guard and protect the itty bitty. 

All silver and deep purple, with spots of yellow in specific places, the tiny little thing bounced on the broad black-bellied pedes and spun his gyroed wheels about. Megatron smirked crookedly in fondness at the sight, more-so for base components than the crude add-ons affixed behind the posterior plates. 

Crude was by far the most adequate term to describe. Cut out of remnants of packing boxes found stored away from a time when Prime’s team had been bound to that wretched organic world. To this day, they were still finding pieces of that era, and the little tyke was the last to do so. A treasure-trove of small paint buckets, sticky wrap called ‘duct tape,’ and all piled together in a heap of small cubes made out of flimsy brown stiff fiber — cardboard, Ratchet had called it. 

Now several of the boxes were sacrificed into the crude shape of flier wings, much like Prime’s own jetpack. Enterprising and crafty, the tyke had worked with the rusty medic to tie them up with tape and strips of fabric, but only after Arcee joined in and painted bold stripes and a wobbly pair of smiles with the help of the tiny engineer. 

The tiny grounder wished to be a flier, just like the Prime occasionally became, and zoomed around Omega’s halls with little sound effects that rang through the old war machine. 

Megatron felt old, for he was. Far older than any other bot aboard, although he was unsure how Ratchet and he compared. The two never went pede-to-pede and settled the matter of which was older, for Megatron at least carried his age with a grace that the rust-bucket had yet to manage. Who, in their right processor, would embrace the notion of falling apart? 

One cardboard wing drooped to the little one’s side, the fabric’s pull had worn away the little holes that held its textile latches together. Light glimmered on the small aviator lenses —a gift from that pesky Earth techno-organic—as the fickle tyke pulled them over his helm’s rim; all the better to review the damage. 

“Um—Ratchet?” 

No reply, not while the doctor was preoccupied with another work throughout his sickbay. 

With each little squirm and wiggle the wing’s damage became worse, until soon its bearer was struggling not to be entangled in a mess of mayhem; Megatron was urged by instinct to come forth and assist, and instead he stayed back to observe. 

Vigilant as ever over what was his. 

Carmine optics danced about to track the movements of the youngling, still round and smooth with some parts looking straight out of the pod. Unfortunately, no one, not even Megatron, could still claim that their little charge was a podling. Lines had begun to sharpen and lengthen, the smoothness of curves began to take an edge; already the warlord could foresee a future shape in the simplistic form, a foretelling of the future yet to come. 

“—excuse me, Ratchet?” 

Desperate for attention, yet not so quick to yell, the tyke began to try and scramble aboard the tallest mediberth. The struggle was valiant and true, and alas Megatron took his long strides forward and with one hand plucked the small thing onto the new perch. 

Before the voice cried out again for acknowledgment, the field medic’s field fluctuated in a sign of captured attention, alerted by the massive sound of their Decepticon resident’s approach. 

Best to let the small thing think he got the attention. 

“Uhh—Ratchet, my wings are loose,” the small one’s voice said alas. Rarely one to stutter, the tiniest resident managed to fill all their fields with the bright merit of his voice, a quality that rang around Omega Supreme’s hull. 

Brushed off and yet given just attention, the kid’s optics tried to make sense of his crafty mess, even while Ratchet retorted, “Hold on kid, I’ll get the tape.” 

In short order the ‘duct-tape’ was out and a patch job was done; it would need further repairs, if not an entire new iteration, yet for now it would suit just as well. 

“Thanks, Ratchet!” An exclamation of gratitude, and Megatron was at least proud for some propriety within the small voice. 

The bitty bot went to launch himself off the edge, as if new repairs and a new height would launch him into flight. Although Megatron knew too-well that there was no room for harm, as the metal of the youngling’s armor had long since hardened, and the height was hardly of any note, he still reached out and caught the squirmy little thing as the artificial gravity took hold. 

So small, so little, it fit between his servos like a caught little cybercat. Without any size to compare to Megatron, it was entirely to point everything smaller Autobots were made of. Yet, even now, the Decepticon knew well enough that in time it would grow into its heritage, and tower over many of these others — maybe even the Prime himself. 

For now, however, it fit in his hold like a lively little doll, and showed no fear — not even bravery was required. The pale golden facial derma lit up, although they too were pale by comparison to the brightest little optics — the same hue as Earth’s safak light. “Peh!” It exclaimed, already squirming to embrace. 

It, he — Megatron still struggled to accept that the little silicone-membrane covered pod had sparked forth and surrendered this little marvel of Cybertronian evolution. 

“Libra,” murmured Megatron, as he stroked one digit down the back of the ever-growing armored protoform. 

This creation was theirs, made out of miracles and hidden secrets, given by the AllSpark Matrix in the last days before their exile on Omega Supreme began. 

Love glittered in gold and warmed the ancient weaponry. Tiny and assured pedes clambered over the massive cannon for footing, until he could latch the little gun-metal grey digits into crevices around Megatron’s helm. 

Even with the filthy Autobot’s gaze, Megatron gave into the kid’s displays of affection, and met each little nuzzle with a massive one of his own. 

Libra smelt of freshly forged metal, brand-new axel grease, and was covered with a sense of newness that they had all forgotten, and something that Megatron had never known. 

Innocence. 

The little field percolated with exuberant joy at something, something remote from the warlord’s natural comprehension, and it had taken long lessons by the other contributory crafter in Libra’s creation. 

Love: how it shimmered and shined in the darkness, sparkled with newness that could not be so easily dimmed without great toil. The warbuild within the Decepticon avowed any threats to take away that delicate innocence, and tear away at this thing called love. 

The other party had told him, had taught him, that love may seem fragile, but it was not so easily destroyed. A tiny seed was all it took to spread roots and grow deeper, until it could bud and spawn fruits of that laborious love. From Megatron’s understanding of how organic plantae worked, then Libra had been the sweet by-product of that love. 

The Decepticon had always considered love more of a parasite. Yet, it planted a seed within his spark, shared with Another, and the roots spread forth until it was nurtured and budded into a little pod. Out of that pod came the little treasure now dubbed Libra. 

And now, Libra was everything ready to be a new seed in the universe, and Megatron would protect it until his spark went dark and his armor grey with death. 

“I want to fly!” 

Of course he did. 

Megatron held onto Libra’s undercarriage and let the bot spread out his arms and leg struts, held out past the span of the ornamental wings. Paired with a sound effect, the small youngling let his Sire do all the work. 

So, he flew through Omega Supreme, and imagined great mysteries that Megatron could never comprehend; his processors had been designed purely to conjure images of destruction and tyranny, and the new mindsets were hard to imprint upon him. So, instead, the bicopter let Libra do all the imagining for him, and he listened to the tyke valiantly fight some unseen enemy that threatened their “home.” 

Victorious as always, and Megatron was prideful. 

Their last stop on the flight of heroes had been Omega’s personnel hatch. In a circle Libra zoomed about, all by the engine of his Sire’s doing; the tyke's actual engine --tiny and still compact-- rumbled with pre-existing excitement, but did not seem to react when a bright red light over the hatch lit up. 

Someone was coming aboard. 

Protocols, deeply buried within the civilian Autobots, were always the first to stream through Megatron’s HUD; Libra did not know the meaning of his Sire’s bristled field, or the power-up sound that thrummed into the cannon. That smile never waned off the youthful derma. 

Megatron, however, narrowed his optics well before the light turned off, sealed away from the vacuum of space, and the hatch was pulled from the framework. Logic reasoned that he would know whom entered their ship, and that it would be no danger to any aboard Omega’s hold. Yet, the warlord could not disarm his suspicion nor his guard. 

Obviously, a swarm of enemy combatants or any sort of threat was not what breached the ship’s threshold. Instead, a familiar bot of blue and red crossed over, the speckles of yellow another primary contrast to the pre-existing hue. 

Megatron stood down his guard and a retreating hum buzzed through his circuits, a signal of his cannon’s power down. 

“Prime,” he said, to acknowledge Optimus. 

Libra’s acknowledgment was some fair bit more personable and far louder. 

Out of Megatron’s absent grasp, the tyke threw himself towards the Autobot. “Da!” And happiness erupted with that single noise, just as the small arms latched onto the knee. Optimus continued to relieve himself of the jetpack before he bent down to scoop up the bitty bot; their difference was far less, and suited Prime with greater proportion. 

“Let me use them!” Libra demanded, one little servo reaching towards the jetpack. 

Megatron took it out of Prime’s grasp and shoved them into a storage closet for safe keeping; a lock to keep out tiny servos. 

And that earned them both a pout of defiance. 

“But—Peh and Da, I want to—” A voice that normally sang to Megatron’s spark now beget a frown of disgust from the warbuild, and a frown of disapproval from the Autobot. 

Prime would try and soothe, and as predictable as it was, all in company still listened when he said, “You are too small, Libra. Even with your recent armor after the past molt, you are still too young and all the wrong size. You’re just not ready.” Obvious to Megatron, the Prime meant it out of concern and due to love. 

Libra, however, took it as a spiteful of his rightful freedom. “But! You can fly, and so can Peh!” Megatron was gestured at with dark grey servos, and narrowed on their movement. 

“You are a grounder, just like Optimus Prime. Your current wings are adequate for the time being,” Megatron spoke with an intention of finality. 

Alas, Libra looked ready for a tantrum that would have disrupted more than just their ship, but the neighboring star systems as well. Then, the blue and red bot crouched on his knees and spoke to the little creation with a servo on a miniature shoulder, “Libra, I had to earn my wings, and you will have your chance someday to do the same. And I promise, I would not miss your first flight for anything in the whole galaxy. For now, you have to practice and prepare.” 

That seemed to do the trick, thus the optical lubricants began to go dry and the pout turned into an expression of determination. Libra vowed to them both, with optics kept on Optimus’, “I will earn them someday, as soon as I can. I will become the best Autobot soldier ever, so I can fly just like you.” 

Libra spun on his heels the moment Arcee’s far-away voice reached their audials, and the action seemed to bleed into his word. The fit had been averted, but Megatron’s had snuck on them both. 

By his sides hung his fists, that trembled with a barely contained rage. Energon boiled within his tanks, and his bright vermillion optics flashed with caged fury. From the very moment he picked up the tiny podling, so fragile and small, and seen the golden light that peered at him, the warbuild promised to protect. All his existence had been to wage war, to wreck havoc upon the universe. When there was no war to challenge, Megatron saw reason to monger it in differential defiance. Omega Supreme and he had found more commonalities between them each than the differences they once faced, and it was one thing: they were both weapons, stolen of a right to be anything else, and denied whatever else would make them equal to others. 

Part of his protection for Libra had been to swear to the heavens that the little podling would be followed by freedom, and know only the taste of liberty. That small form, as it grew and changed with each molt, showed signs of future strength to match the determined spark of a warrior ignited by both progenitors; a warrior, yes, but never a soldier. 

Optimus rose to meet the awaited wrath, and stood with wide pedesteps and assurance that defied the limitations of Prime’s training; this had been an argument had before, and just as now, it would assuredly rise in the future. 

However, Prime seemed not to want to argue the point, not even when Megatron spoke with poisonous conviction that, “I will not allow Libra to become a cog in the Autobot machine!” 

No voice was raised in defiance, and instead he felt a smaller servo touch on him. The first contact of the day, and he looked at the blue splay of digits. 

“Megatron, I know… I know what you are scared of. But, he’s too little to make choices of his future now. Right now we can only make sure he is safe, that our decisions are to give him a future where he can make these decisions,” Optimus met his bright blue optics with Megatron’s red, and suddenly the warlord felt something that tethered between them. 

Sorrow. 

The warlord, so long and spiteful of the Autobots, had forgotten that there were those among his enemies that had learned to be aware of what it meant to wear the badge; everything came at a cost. 

Prime would never renounce his allegiance to the Autobots, and no sooner would he regret his loyalty than Megatron would take shame in the Decepticons. That was who they were, that was the past they carried into the future. Yet, both had known that sometimes the past could not have always been brought into the future. Each wore the sigils of their factions, and yet both had found themselves drawn away into a self-imposed exile. 

All for Libra, that he would not be raised on a world that would force the only sole pair of parents to be divided. One in prison, one the prisoner’s guard. 

Instead, they hid among the stars, to see their little fruit planted, spread roots out of the seed, and grow into a great new tree; may all the universe marvel at what they created. 

Sometime, when the time was right, Libra would be allowed to return to Cybertron, just like Ratchet and Arcee. However, for Omega and Megatron, that fate was already sealed. It had been the Autobot war-machine that went to destroy the jail that kept Megatron imprisoned, and it had been Omega that wanted to see Cybertron’s first family united. Optimus could return by technicality, and yet, out of practicality he knew he never would; Optimus' place was now with Megatron. No one had explained the conditions to Libra, and no one had the spark. All the little bot knew was Omega Supreme, the field of stars they traveled, and the alien worlds that played adventurous host along the way. 

So deep in thought of the sacrifices made, Megatron had forgotten to concentrate on what the Prime spoke of, so again he only gathered snippets. “— just see what happens and let him grow up.” Optimus never dared to say a second time that not all Autobots were so bad, not after Megatron ruthlessly reminded the bot that just because there were a few, there was plenty enough to strike fear and hate into the sparks of all Decepticons, and thus turn the Decepticons into what they were now. 

“After all, there isn’t much… we can do about his choices once he’s old enough to return to Cybertron,” remorse was so evident within Prime’s voice, and it pulled a little at Megatron. 

Megatron caught Prime’s optics: the vidscanners of an Autobot soldier. 

Unable to make out what the nurse was saying down the expansive hallway, Megatron decided to concentrate on past wisdom she imparted on the two creators, while she shared the task of nurturing Libra far and away. According to her, many organics believed it was important for offspring to witness their parents share affection. And, as Libra's primary teacher, she had an investment of concern to see to it that the needs his parents failed to foresee would still be met; as the humans would say: it took a village to raise a child. 

One thing the warlord never had been, was affectionate. Passionate, yes, and ruthless more often than not; Megatron rarely partook in prurient activities, for the wages of war preoccupied him in both mind and body far more. Even when he had, Megatron was always quick and to the point, to get his pleasure and barely bother with his partners. When their little jailhouse affair began, it was much the same initially between him and the Prime. Luckily, it had taken little for Optimus to be satisfied, and neither seemed to desire emotional investment. 

Obviously, one spark-merge play and a sticky mess between them both, and they found each other saddled with a massive responsibility that they also had not desired. Ratchet had been the one to figure out Prime’s change, and Sari’s contact with the AllSpark explained the rest. 

Prime had asked and puzzled for a means to bridge the two factions, to bring balance to Cybertron and its people, and after Megatron's vows that for as long as his spark was alfamed, peace would never settle between Autobots and Decepticons. In an infinite and ethereally eldritch wisdom, it was the AllSpark that once again posed a solution that had been unorthodox and unexpected: _Libra_. 

Megatron reached out and placed his larger servo on Optimus’ to initiate contact that usually came only after the needling of resident by-standers. Libra’s conception and his emergence had not cemented them fully, rather time stuck on this ship had been the slow catalyst between them. 

All those vows of rained ruin on Autobots and any that opposed a Decepticon-rule over Cybertron had turned to dust, from the very moment silicone broke and little servos reached out; that voice was still remembered, so tiny and primal as it squeaked and squawked to be retrieved. 

Vents were hitched, and the warlord marveled at how much Libra looked like Optimus Prime, even if there was obviously a spark of Decepticon within the little tyke. 

So, to display his affection, Megatron reached down and picked up Prime. Not to hold him prisoner or to capture, and not to toss around like a shield from enemy weapon fire, or even a throw-away bot of amusement. Rather, his intention was to hold his co-creator against his broad chassis and watch those optics stare down at him. 

“I’ll tear down the entire universe to protect him and whatever — _choices_ — he makes,” Megatron’s vocalizer growled out a single word, to emphasize his disapproval. Yet, irony had it that as a paragon of liberty, he had to give the same to their creation. 

Just as Libra had done, Optimus bestowed onto him a smile. This display was nowhere near as bright, yet it blinded him thoroughly to see hatred between them both change. No longer a monster to Prime, Megatron had become something else when a war-machine that merely destroyed. 

He created something, and it took this little Autobot Prime to help him. That was something no one could ever say had not rightfully earned the adulation of the Decepticon Warlord; Prime's name had never been truly forgotten, only a plot of claim to belittle and frustrate this surprisingly capable foe. Nor could anyone, not Strika, Shockwave, Starscream, or any other Decepticon imaginable, could dare to take-back their tyrannical lord’s respite from hatred. 

Never once had he or Prime said that they loved each other, as right now it was simply not a word either could share to the other. Yet, Libra showed that something was there, and he gave back in return to both with equal measure. Time may bring a moment that the word would finally assimilate fully into Megatron's warbuild processor, and his linguistics matrix could allow common usage. For now, it hung silently between them and scampered around on tiny little pedes for attention from other bots. 

Megatron may have said his newer vows for Libra’s sake, but Optimus was always in there. These three had become a term that Ratchet explained, and Optimus tried not to show too much favor for. A concept so alien and foreign to Megatron that even now he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of it. 

Family. 

Something to return to, something guard and protect, something to give meaning in little things, and something to help stem the tide of great tragedies. 

Megatron turned his helm and met with Optimus’ cheek-to-cheek; an ignited claim shared between the two, with one heavy servo pressed between broad red-finished shoulders. Their sparks licked at the insides of chamber walls, and tried to entwine through the physical barrier. 

This was how great warlords retired; without luxury of frame, but a luxury of spark. 

Shy little derma touched on the corner of his mouthplates, and Megatron could taste Optimus’ intakes; his spark felt ready to take flight.


	2. Chapter 2

Heavy was the datapad in the Autobot’s servos, the words spoke now to no one, the first segment already done its mark to sear into the Optimus’ mind.

> _Optimus Prime,_
> 
> _This transmission has been encrypted for obvious reasons._
> 
> _The Council’s formal proclamation has been attached for the rest of your crew. In summary, the field medic and intel bot’s exile —Ratchet and Arcee— will be temporary for as long as they remained allied to Omega Supreme and/or Megatron. Yours, unfortunately, will have to be spent out as scribed, and you have been formally expelled from the Autobots in its entirety; I suppose out there you can still be use the title Prime, if it brings you any merit with aliens —organic or not, but here on Cybertron, you have been stripped of your title. As for Omega Supreme and Megatron, their exile has been for the rest of their lives, and will not be a matter of future review._

Stars passed by with record grace, a sheet of glimmering light that winked against the black. At first glance they seemed a sheet of glitter with little variety, Optimus all too well that deception in the canvas. They were a sea of stars, like sparkling fish that swam in a vacuous current that bowed under gravitational wells and hidden celestial mysteries. While from his vantage it may have looked as though they moved and bent around Omega’s screen, Optimus once again knew the reality — they were the little tiny spec of dust that floated freely between the astronomical entities. Mostly were nameless, or labeled with a cold designation purely for the most impersonal of uses.

Somewhere, far and away, two of those stars had names known to him. One of a medium star, yellow that glowed with the early wanes of mid-life. Unremarkable among the heavens, it was still a thing of majesty in what it wrought forth. Around it hung several planets of various sizes, and one of which was a blue and white marvel — Earth, a life-sustaining world that danced around Sol. Second was a larger star, so hot was its heat of blue that it glowed white, and massive by comparison to many. Of course, it was all perspective, for a greater distance may have separated this massive star from its token world, but the distance was right to support its people whom derived their name from the world — Cybertron, partnered to Hadeen.

Tightly came the thoughts of longingly, that Optimus felt his armor too tight and his protoform swell with something not quite so cleanly defined. Grief, longing, gratitude, and regret came with it, but also a sense of happiness. Prime had called plenty of places home, Earth and Omega Supreme to name but a few. Cybertron would always be his place of on-line, where he first stared up and saw the stars. For though that world had been left behind, with a knowledge that it would still be his truest of homes, Optimus had to now come to terms that it would never be. This was no hiatus he faced, no reprieve.

> _It was at the behest of a few council-members that I ask you to remove your badge, with the same request made of Omega Supreme. However, if that sigil would serve in some small measure to add protection for you, then pretend that portion of the message was garbled. What use would your title be if you had no proof of it?_
> 
> _For the offspring, whose name is recorded as LIBRA PAX, whose future with Cybertron I know was of concern to you: that matter is complicated._
> 
> _As it stands, we know it was not brought online in the Cybertronian starsystem, nor on any colony of our world. Hence, he cannot be recognized as a citizen, nor acknowledged at this time as one of our race. His “birth” is an oddity, and Perceptor has volunteered to review a full set of data transmitted by Ratchet to confirm his species. At the physician’s quickest ability, please so it. Physical schematics at the highest resolution will be required, as well as a copy of his source code._
> 
> _I promise, I will continue my efforts for him. If what you claim is true, then he is the first of our kind to be born, rather than made. Frankly, I do not know how comfortable I am with this, as I have to agree, Optimus, it does sound a lot like something organics would do. But, if you taught me anything, it is not to give up on evolution._

The dry voice rang in Optimus’ mind, and yet he could almost imagine the exposed indulgences that eroded composed infamy in a capacity rarely seen by many, and took Optimus within the few who had been granted such intimate access. 

Lightly his digits touched upon the words on his pad's screen, as it contact would transmit the missing heat that once radiated out of heavily armored plates. The screen was still, but he could almost draw out of memory the rumble of the heavy engine. By the methods of its composition, Prime accessed that it was likely composed orally, transcribed onto the data-pad with the natural flow of timbre intact.

This was a personal letter, just for him.

Unexpectedly, the personal nature of the transmission continued to deepen, until Optimus felt like he was being taken back into an embrace.

> _Sentinel continues to be a processor ache of course, and Jazz tries his best to keep him in line. Right now your friends, Bumblebee and Bulkhead, are hardly consolable, though I suspect they might be ready to hatch a plan to meet you out in the expanse of space._
> 
> _I wanted to thank you for your wisdom in leaving the younger bots behind. Jazz told me that the plan had been to rendezvous with them, but from our video records, it looks like Omega Supreme had missed the mark. Reconstruction of the Decepticon Warlord’s escape reveal that you and your team had adequate time. So, I can only assume that their presence on Cybertron has some part to do with you._

In the distance, Optimus registered the others communing with Libra. The smaller voice carried long and far, bridging a gap with those who spoke with softer pitches. Ratchet’s voice was the only one who broke the silence, and for obvious reasons.

“—I’m ready to launch, Ratchet!”

“Hold on kid, I haven’t got the pillows set up yet!!”

Mirth filled the room, and suddenly a burst of giggles came through the hallways; it was a melodic eruption that spread out against Omega’s hull like an expanding nova.

Combined with the consumption of the datapad’s contents and the laughter of his child, Optimus slipped from his display of grief and a smile gently curved his lips. Just enough to give him strength to continue on.

Skimming through the summary of events on Cybertron continued, as if someday Optimus would ever return; unsaid was that the young Prime would not, and nor would he ever be asked. When questions of a personal nature finally came, it was gentle and coaxing out of the mech’s usual reticence.

> _Communication with your party is to be limited. I would not encourage direct transmission to any of your friends, as Intelligence will likely read the message and block it if needs must. Even with my position, I can only manage so much without undermining the entirety of our efforts._
> 
> _However, I do suggest that you use more neutral parties, parties welcomed to Cybertron, as a go-between. Sari Sumdac still visits our world, and intel suggests that you have visited her at least once._
> 
> _Note: Hide your use of the outlying space-bridges a little better, Prime._
> 
> _The council has grown accustomed to the fact that I am your primary contact, although of primarily official grounds._
> 
> _For formal reasons and selfish ones, I hope you will see well to continue our… correspondence._
> 
> _Until the next,_
> 
> _Ultra Magnus,  
>  Autobot High Command_

The end felt broken by comparison to the formality above, and Optimus knew well that the Magnus had taken great pains to try and carry out some part of their private relationship. Optimus noticed the lack of requests to return, or blame heaped upon Megatron. In fact, based on the entirely private nature of both relationships, the one party that was aware of Optimus’ duality appeared for all intents to be satisfied by some little continuation.

Thoughts on that plagued the Autobot, so much so that he found himself in one of the recreational rooms several minutes later. Composure had to be regained, disciplined no matter how tattered. Megatron drew out of the shadows of their private chambers to precede him, in return to the vigilant watch over their progeny.

Megatron loomed in the hallway, while Optimus walked welcomed into the room. Immediately a blur of grey, silver, and shades of purple was upon him. Bright golden optics peered upwards at him, “Da! Da!”

The exclamation earned a smile unlike the others, for it was weighed neither by guilt nor sorrow, and instead actually warmed Prime’s armor.

“Ratchet is going out onto Omega’s hull to do some maintenance. Can I —” Gold darted towards the hulking form of his Sire, and Optimus barely glanced sideways to see the look of pointed stodginess from Megatron; he chuckled, particularly with how Libra calmed his rapid speech and stood a little straighter. With careful measure, Libra composed his words with a bit more propriety and grace to ask, “May I go with?”

Cybertronians had no cause to fear a reasonable exposure to the harshness of space. Still, parents were, as Optimus knew well from Earth and his own experience, quite unreasonable when it came to conjuring all notions of how something typically safe, could suddenly become unsafe for their child. Megatron had an even greater talent for it, often directed by a protective ferocity that overshadowed even Libra’s so-called mother.

Optimus liked the term Carrier much better, as coined by Ratchet in his missive stating that the changes to Prime’s frame were not that of a terminal parasite, only a sapient one.

Blue contorted in a wise-old smile, and he caught optics with Megatron before he spoke, “You asked your Peh, didn't you?” This was a game Optimus caught on to quickly, how the child practically shopped around for the most desirable answer.

To his surprise, Libra didn't looked scolded at all. Instead, he didn't even flinch at Optimus' gaze and rather met the blue-spilled light. “Yes, and he told me to ask you,” he answered.

Prime glanced back at Megatron, and saw no give-away as to the desires of the massive co-progenitor. Obviously, this was in his servos, and if he gave an answer deemed wrong by the Decepticon’s assessment… well, then that was just too bad.

“All right, but you listen to Ratchet and keep your harness on. I want you tethered to him at all times, and don’t disengage your maglocks until after he says so. Under—”

Pedesteps already stole away the rapt attention of his audience. Optimus sighed, and accepted that he’d have to trust that enough of his message was listened to, and possibly a fraction adhered to.

Megatron’s engines growled and only grew louder as Prime approached him. Their shadows crossed only after their fields touched, and Optimus was briefly recalled their tactile exchange only an orn previously.

“Ratchet will keep him safe,” the assurance would never be enough, “and you know Omega will never stop tracking him.

All his comforting earned him was a dismissive snort, and a gesture to follow back into their quarters.

Optimus never quite knew when he’d get used to the interrupted silence from his old enemy, nor the varied reactions it evoked in him. Rather than a wince, the baritone purr almost made Prime’s spinal column curve in appreciation.

Yet, the words made him shrink back.

“I know… you received a transmission from Cybertron. Was it Ultra Magnus?”

Optimus often wondered how much Megatron knew, and if the warbuild would take well to any cause for jealousy.

Without fear, Prime nodded and brought up the formal proclamation of the council.

“Yes, I did. Ultra Magnus informed me of the official decision of the High Council. For the most part, they accepted most of our proposal, in no small effort on his part. But—” Prime paused to watch as Megatron’s optics found the part of concern, which was on the subject of Libra and their homeworld.

The pad was lowered and Megatron raised Optimus up to his level by the intensity of their optics. “They refuse to accept him as a citizen of Cybertron,” he said, with an edge that made Optimus already feel defensive for the Autobots and their council.

Then, he was reminded: this was his child, and although he was an abomination in the optics of most Cybertronians, Libra was still innocent, and it was within the rights of both parents to do whatever they must for his best interests.

Indignation collided with Megatron’s rage, and coiled around the electromagnetic curve of their combined fields. No physical contact came. Megatron continued to navigate the pad for content, but Optimus’ focus made him oblivious to the fact that LIbra’s sire had found the personal letter.

Onward he continued, “Ultra Magnus says it is still open for… review. There seems to be some promise to note that it is Perceptor that is going to look over any data Ratchet sends, mostly to determine that Libra is Cybertronian by species, if not by… creation. From what I gather, it sounds like… he isn't banished from Cybertron,” Optimus had realized towards the end that a change in tactics was required.

Partially, or so it seemed, the tactic worked and Megatron focused on something else. Optimus heard the hiss of cydraulic fluid and the creak of strong servos. Finally, he walked forward and touched Megatron, although mostly to save the poor datapad from destruction.

“And some cycle, you will be able to return,” Megatron said with lowered tones. An accusation, a pledge of conviction, and the laced sear of possible…

Fear?

Downward Prime cast his optics, originally to hide away from the conflict within the Decepticon’s lenses. Magnus’ letter caught him, and suddenly he knew a great extent to the context.

“I’m—not going to go back,” he said, and added within his thoughts: not without you.

Optimus felt like a tamer of great and feral beasts, the only thing that could tie Megatron to any hope of… reform? Reformation? Resolution? He did not know, only that Megatron was still very much the Decepticon Warlord within, only one that had begun to expand beyond the source of his OS.

“Your Autobot friends would be pleased if you did, after you paid your term,” Megatron may have sounded reasonable, but the allegation was still there.

Optimus Prime could someday return to Cybertron, and Megatron, at least within the confines of the law, was once again faced with banishment. And now he had been soiled, the retired warlord that had somehow forsaken all the pledges of liberty promised to all Autobots.

What was the current state of Decepticon lieutenants? How much did they know? Optimus often wondered when they would meet a member of the enemy faction, those of whom that would not call Megatron a foe — traitor perhaps, but always their rightful lord.

When, never if — Optimus knew well that space was vast, but not vast enough to hide them from the Decepticons forever. And their allies had shrunken to nothingness, so even now, they could not expect to completely rebuke Megatron’s former colleagues.

Of course, Optimus also caught on that Megatron spoke not for his Autobots friends, so much as Ultra Magnus and the Supreme Commander’s attentions.

How often, he wondered, would Magnus reach out to help him in the most dire of situations, only for Optimus to do something as silly as follow his spark and end up hurting the older Autobot? Now that spark seemed far more heavily invested in him, and only asked… that Prime keep safe and consider exchanged correspondence.

Megatron had obviously caught on, for the warbuild never suffered of a simple processor like Omega Supreme had.

“My place is here, Megatron,” he reassured, and touched upon the heavy gauntlets.

“Yes, with Libra,” never before had the tyke’s name been uttered like a rust-covered curse.

Optimus drew back on his boots, and an old habit from days when he was but a youngling returned: the audial fins affixed to his helm flinched to the rear, until they were returned to the usual position as courage returned.

“Megatron, don’t be so insecure. It isn’t like you, and I don’t want you to be anyone but who you are—” Well, Optimus could do very-well without the add-on of apocalyptic tyranny, and that change was a welcomed on in his partner(?). “No, my place is here, with you. You knew that before, why would it change now? Ultra Magnus’ affections—Yes, I understand them, I feel much the same. But, he hasn’t asked me to come back to Cybertron once, and I think I can say why: He knows I wouldn’t.”

After last orn’s display, Prime supposed it was his turn for displays of affection. And where Megatron excelled at the physical, sometimes it took words to get through to the volatile spark.

“My place… is here with you. Omega was right, we’re a family, and we belong together. And don’t think I favor him over you. It shamed me to say, because to learn about the bot I called my Magnus was far more than met my optics, well, it was an honor, and a privilege. Almost enough to equal the same privilege to serve under him—”

Megatron glared at the choices of words, and Optimus felt his derma heat up.

Barreling forward, Optimus rode the waves of his bravery.

“Libra might be the center of our relationship right now, and we’ve got a lot of room to grow. But, he’s not the foundation. He isn’t the only reason why… I’m happy, here, with you,” Optimus could hear his voice grow softer and quieter, and feel his haunches droop into themselves.

Now, it was he who exposed himself.

Suddenly, to reignite the contact between them, Megatron reached out and pulled Optimus against him. The Prime found his smaller frame pressed against the heavier one, who acted as though it was enough to tip them onto the berth. Now, he peered down at the great form and remembered what it was like to see new emotions imprint themselves on the warbuild.

Glimmers of self-doubt and confidence waged wars within the Decepticon’s optics, and the heavy servos explored the Optimus' tapered waist and broad back.

“You have not let me touch you since Libra’s pod finally dropped,” it was a fact and Prime ducked his optics downward.

“You haven’t really tried,” he admitted. Of course, there were medical reasons why Optimus had all but gone celibate once the pod emerged.

Megatron touched the windshields and explored the small sensors around the edges. Just as the Decepticon never forgot an enemy, no matter how much he claimed to never bother remembering a name of those lesser, Megatron seemed easily ready to remember how to find hidden crevices to coil Optimus up. “After the pod became… bound, the medic explained that the reproduction cycle might make your interface urges recede until after the protoform’s emergence,” Megatron recounted, confirming that he had paid attention to Ratchet's best medical opinion following Optimus' complications.

The Autobot seemed easily primed up by the contact; strong digits tweaked at wires exposed under his grill’s lintels.

“Ratchet only guessed—I had damage,” he whimpered, and parts of his internal frame reminded him that all his protoform had healed. Optimus felt hot under the touch, like a little puppet with Megatron the holder of the strings.

No matter the level of their intimate encounters, Optimus remembered well that Ultra Magnus always took such a slow and gentle time to coax the younger bot into arousal. Their one fast and furious time had all been Optimus’ doing, and had taken the older Autobot completely by surprise. Megatron, by comparison, took only a few touches to get the hauler’s engines roaring and his fuel-lines hot with ignited energon.

Unable to bear his treatment any longer, Optimus threw himself into position to crash their intake derma together. Megatron acquired him, and gave passage to the bot’s glossa that charged forward.

Always missed would be the company of his Autobot friends, and Magnus’ intimate companionship. But none could ever replace or dim the flame that made sparks ignite in his optics simply by the contact of their lips, or the same coruscated explosion when experienced servos remap his frame and find no inconsistencies from their last encounter.

Black as pitch servos touched him in a furious wave of movement, unrelenting, unrepentant, until Optimus heard his own vocal processor spill forth noises that had not been conjured in ages. They were carnal pleas, whimpers for something more; Megatron knew the meaning of more better than anyone else, for he was never satisfied.

Under his ministrations Optimus felt his old interface systems buzz and remind him of their purpose beyond reproduction. Static crackled in small sines as Megatron tweaked a headlight casing here, or pulled at a slip of wire.

Optimus never knew how digits so large could find gaps in armor sized small enough to pull such a bundle, and yet there they were.

Deep within, Prime could feel his calipers clench tight on nothingness, and settle a deep ache that pained his systems so. Lubricants were eagerly produced as primal logic-loops registered cause and effected commands; the mess swelled with liquid production. Megatron knew well-enough the signs, and rubbed a long stripe down to the base of his spine, and slip at the cluster of camouflaged diodes at the base.

These keens should not be his, not how they surrendered his control and absolute forsake his discipline. And yet, Optimus knew the sounds of his own vocalizer, and had joined in on this chorus before.

In preset order, Megatron had coaxed up tucked away panels, released pressurized spikes, and seen the exposed splay of swollen folds glisten up at him. The lubricants made each mesh-like crease of protoform wet his pallet, and the Decepticon cared not that his gloss actually slipped out and licked the curve of his all-too-pleased lips.

Bodily lifted, Optimus opened his thighs and followed the pull of Megatron’s claws, just as his full-weight came to bear on Megatron’s face. It dripped with thick, viscous fluids, that coated his derma eagerly. Tasting of ultra-refined energon, and if he delved his glossa deep enough, the metal itself surrender a flavor unique to Prime’s protoform.

Under the smaller bot, who was never miniature or even small by Autobot specs, Megatron’s heavy war-built engines roared with the ferocity of his tongue.

Glowing nodes were revealed each time he swiped his tongue and pressed the flat, to taste the sined current parting the fibrous folds. Prime squirmed on his face and pressed the full weight into the gravity, and Megatron took it like as though all his metabolic needs could be meet by feasting on the Autobot.

This was the frame that gave him comfort, pleasure, a means of release, and eventually also gifted him with something he had never wanted: redemption. Megatron bore no regrets for the Decepticons, and this Optimus knew well.

Yet, to change the code of a warbuild was no easy feat. Their imprints took time, and simple means were only accomplished by those that possessed the activation codes; Megatron had seen to their termination long ago.

Now Megatron saw fit to leave his imprint on Optimus at the protoform level; denta gnaws gingerly at delicate folds, lapped at the succulent fluids, and worked over the nodes until the spine trembled and lubricant dripped down his chin. Just as Optimus began to feel his overload approach, Megatron adjusted his means and slipped his larger glossa into the valve to brave the calipers.

Tightness vised him, desperate to pull it inward and find more to sate the emptiness abound. Behind the Decepticon’s panel, physical interest took manifest; a clung alarmed them both of the larger bot’s heavier spike trapped against the paneled barrier. Yet, for now, Megatron’s attention still seemed pleased on Optimus and ensuring that he was the primary individual credited for the persistent Autobot’s pleasure.

By the time it came, a crash that crested over Optimus’ consciousness, it was paired with a tremble that would not abate and a surge of convulsive current that coursed through him and singed white-hot heat against the edges of his peripheral cognizance.

Optimus bore his weight onto Megatron’s face, insistent that the heavier mech take to completion of the task, until it stole away the Autobot on a tidal wave of pent up ecstasy.

Electromagnetic waves emanated out of the Prime’s condensed with flashed burst like a nova, and ascended him on breaker-wave of euphoria. Optimus felt stolen away from the worries of his kin, of the partner he had left behind, of the child who dance upon the hull. Instead, it was just this mech that pulled at his spark and plucked at his frame…

Collapsed onto the larger mass, Optimus was a limp bundle of struts and circuits. His engines revved in appreciation as taloned servos touched his back and explore the familiar panes of his plates.

Ultra Magnus took ages to work Optimus up, and longer still to bring him back down. Megatron knew him with the precision of a hunter, how to bring him right to the edge then deny him sweet surrender. Or, it would take long and hard to escalate the Autobot under his ministration, then miss only one little touch to send off into oblivion.

Hauler engines purred with placid revere. Against his audials thrummed the beaten tempo of Megatron’s spark; it sounded of the call after a battle, of victory’s sweet repletion. Supplicated and spent, Optimus gave no heed to the mess between their abdominal plates, or the erected extremity now pressed between his thighs; Megatron seemed not to care for his own in return, and satisfied that he could still masterfully ply Optimus so.

Then, in satisfied tones, so coy and well-earned, Megatron spoke with a smirk more heard than seen, “Your place is here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter came to me, an inspiration that started mid-day.
> 
> Their relationship and the world has begun to evolve. For the sake of attention span, I only partly ascribe to the notion of "Show, don't tell." Thus, you'll see some bits more of the backstory.
> 
> With more encouragement, more story will come! I am so sorry, for I am terrible at the completion of fan fiction. In the past, I've tried the method of writing it all before I start to publish it, and instead it remains ignored. So, this time, I'm going to publish it as I write and see... if that gives me more energy.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a little sketch by Rinpin: http://rinpin.tumblr.com/post/92310171473
> 
> Thank you to Mooseling for volunteering my beta.
> 
> I will not lie: if I receive enough encouragement, I think I might be able to give into this little bunnies and continue the story. It may be a prequel or a sequel. Please, comment if you can feel inspired! I know it will be just the encouragement I seek.


End file.
